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Shouting against the gag, I thrash and kick and try to draw his attention.
He doesn’t look at me.
Inching toward Denver, he drops his hands to the towel, loosens it, and sends it to the floor.
I stop breathing.
Fucking hell, he’s beautiful. Head to toe, his skin possesses the paleness of fresh snow. There’s no ink. He must’ve scrubbed it away, leaving a pure white, alabaster glow.
A deathly glow. Absence of all color and warmth. Void of life.
The longer I stare, the more I see him. Bloodless lips. Hollow cheeks. Sharp bones. Blue eyes—usually as vibrant and restless as the sea—are now vacant. Bleak.
His body, sleek with lean muscle and ridged in all the right places, is too tightly drawn, too wooden. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.
It’s obvious he’s agreeing to do something he doesn’t want to do. But what exactly? I think I know, but I’m not sure I do.
Something isn’t right between them, and not knowing makes me crazed. My imagination runs wild with despicable acts. I can’t help it. The excitement on Denver’s face promises terrible, terrible things to come.
With a crook of his finger, he gestures Wolf closer, closer, then… “Hold out your tongue.”
My mouth fills with salt and sand. I have that underwater feeling—heavy limbs, burning lungs, unbearable pressure, sinking, sinking, sinking—as Wolf obeys.
Denver licks the offered appendage. Then sucks on it. Wolf doesn’t fight him, doesn’t move away. He just stands there as Denver angles his head and connects their lips in a kiss that shouldn’t be shared between father and son. It’s a claiming kiss, demanding and urgent and illicit.
As Denver’s hands slide into Wolf’s hair and yank him closer, I scream behind the gag.
My objections fall on deaf ears.
I’m forced to watch.
Denver holds nothing back, assaulting Wolf’s mouth while his rapey hands grope and fondle Wolf’s exposed cock.
With every robbed kiss, every molestation, every violation I witness, it grows blacker, meaner, and more feral in my wasted heart.
It should be me.
If Wolf hadn’t walked in, it would be my mouth against Denver’s, my body enduring those touches, my suffering.
I can bear my own pain. I can’t suffer his.
Denver pulls away and clucks his tongue.
“What?” Wolf stares at the floor, his hair hanging around his face.
“You agreed to this. I want you. Not some lifeless, impersonal version of you.”
“I see the Dad of the Year award is still up for grabs.”
“I love you. I only wish to show you.”
I lose my grip on denial as it sinks beneath crushing realization. This is what Wolf agreed to do. He isn’t offering to fuck me, but instead to let Denver fuck him.
Fury, unlike anything I’ve felt, surges through my veins, stretching blood vessels and boiling bones.
If hell exists, this is it. The place where evil reigns.
Wolf sniffs and lifts his head. I expect to see tears, but he doesn’t show a whiff of sadness or fear. He looks…vicious.
Striding to the desk, he snatches a sharpie, uncaps it, and lifts it to his face. With his back to the room, I can’t see what he’s drawing. Without a mirror, he can’t see, either. Whatever it is, it doesn’t take long.
He tosses the marker, turns to brace his forearm on a nearby wall, and crosses one ankle over the other, striking a macabre pose.
His expression, one that will haunt me until the day I die, now bears the harrowing sketch of a Glasgow smile. In lieu of cutting slashes from the corners of his mouth to his ears, he drew them in heavy black ink, mimicking scars in the shape of a broad smile.
I shudder violently.
Joaquin Phoenix in Joker has nothing on Wolfson Strakh.
“Better?” He takes his dick in hand, stroking obscenely while aiming that exaggerated smile at Denver. “You want this, old man?”
“I see you, Son,” Denver rasps. “I’ll never stop wanting you. Come here.”
The unmistakable bulge in Denver’s pants produces a spasm through my eyelids. The twitching spreads to all the muscles in my face. Oxygen evades me. The shackles dig into my twisting wrists, and my vocal cords blow out from over-screaming.
How do I stop this? I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe or think.
I’m a voyeur, a forgotten bystander, locked behind soundproof glass in a house of horrors.
Wolf cracks his neck to the left, to the right. Then he pushes off the wall and reaches for Denver. They collide in a clash of mouths, hands, and hips, grinding and rubbing in sync. No hesitation now. No awkward fumbling.
Like they’ve done this before.
Ice encases my stomach as everything flips and twists and slides together.
The devil’s bargain.
By agreeing to be Denver’s plaything, Wolf saved me from that torture.
He made a deal with the devil to protect me.
This is what Denver wanted all along. He isn’t into me. He probably isn’t even into women. But he knows his sons. He planned this, knowing if he bided his time, if he waited until they grew attached to me, they would intervene.
